Dumbledore, luckily, intervened once more. "Weeping will not bring Mr Weasley back among us, I fear. He was rather clear about his feelings."

Harry looked at his Headmaster as though the old man had just admitted to be particularly proficient at dancing the boogie on ice-skates.

"I am glad you joined us, Miss Granger, for you and Harry are the ones Ronald might… possibly… open his mind to."


I am immune (Wildfire!)

Because of you (Wildfire!)

I'm fireproof (Wildfire!)

Because of you (Wildfire!)

Wildfire, by Crusher-P


Harry was suspended in mid-air. The arms of his school robes had been caught in massive thorns. His legs were tangled between dry, leafless branches that did not even strain under the weight of the sixteen-year old. Dead vines covered in thorns circled his waist, stabilizing him. Gulping, the teen realized he was trapped in a forest of overgrown, lifeless brambles.

Harry fidgeted to free himself from the embrace of the dead vegetation but quickly realized that he might, for all intents and purposes, only succeed in falling to the ground and break his neck. He decided it might be more prudent to stay put and wait for Ron to help…

The mere thought of his best friend in the world shook him out of his stupor. He shot quick glances in every direction, only to be met by the same spectacle. Dried, dead, creaking branches with menacing thorns, their bleak shadows looking awfully like burn marks, in a world of ominous silence where no sun was visible. No green leaves to be seen, only dull greys and browns, each vine wrinkled by the lack of humidity.

Harry couldn't believe it.

This was Ron's mind?

There had to be a mistake. Ron was a happy person. Ron wouldn't – couldn't – be a sea of endless spiky brambles plunged in obscurity. He'd be a sun in the summer sky, brightening the world without even realizing it; or a mother Hungarian Horntail shielding her eggs with her immense wings stretched protectively and her fire breath at the ready; or a good old trustworthy broom that would take you to Jupiter if you asked it to…

But this? This was the absolute antithesis of Ron. Harry wondered if he hadn't accidentally wandered into Snape's mindscape instead, but he figured he'd have been rejected already if that was the case, leaving him to contemplate the very disturbing possibility that this – this desolate, barren world filled with dead and deadly thorns – was actually his best friend's. He just couldn't believe it. It lacked everything Ron was: life, light, comfort, joy, warmth…

Speaking of warmth, was it just him, or was it getting rather – er – hot in there?

Harry found beads of sweat pooling on his forehead, which confirmed that the sudden change in temperature wasn't just a product of his imagination. It wasn't the comfortable warmth of a fireplace, either: it was angry, choking heat, more like a volcano.

It was at that instant that Harry noticed a rapidly-growing line of red in the distance, chasing the darkness away. Or, rather, engulfing the darkness in scorching, furious fire.

The teenager had never seen anything like this; the inferno was fast, so fast even his Firebolt wouldn't have outraced it. A forest fire, hurtling forwards at a terrifying speed, consuming the brambles, devouring the shadows, crackling angrily and making the branches fall down into the unknown. Harry closed his eyes, willing some tears to come out and soothe their painful dryness, but the smouldering flames would have none of this.

"Ron…? Please…" he mumbled as he felt the fire growing closer, closer.

Anger, fire, now this he could associate with his friend. Maybe not in such a destructive way, but still… Well, he had associated Ron to one of the most ferocious dragons in existence, so he supposed it could be true. His best friend did have an explosive temper, getting riled up at the littlest things… But it couldn't be so terrible, surely. Ron didn't fight needlessly, he wasn't as volatile as to fling himself to somebody without having a good reason. What did these flames mean? Was it just Ron's anger, or was it something else, like wrath or… or hatred?

Harry had been internally monologuing for a full minute now and he wondered how the untameable, scorching wildfire hadn't already reduced him to a pile of mind-ashes. He risked opening his eyes, and was surprised to discover that the racing inferno had just… stopped in front of him, as if it was waiting for something.

The Boy-Who-Lived was suspended in the air by overgrown dead brambles and surrounded by a wall of fire, and all of that was happening within his best friend's unconscious mind. Said best friend whom he was supposed to drag out of said unconscious mind.

"… Ron?" he asked breathlessly, despite not technically needing oxygen here.

The flames briefly died down, taking the light with them, before rising again. Harry realized he had just witnessed fire blink.

Then, something very odd happened – and Harry was familiar with odd things, considering he was a wizard and had seen what was hidden in the Department of Mysteries. The idle fire crackled softly, and a quick little flame tendril reached out towards him before retreating. He blinked. The flame reached out – almost tentatively – again.

The scarred teenager noticed at that instant that the unbearable heat had turned into a pleasant warmth that he was much more willing to accept as a part of his best mate's inner workings. Unconscious or not, Ron had obviously realized that this new mind-invader was a tolerable one. The green-eyed boy didn't know whether he should be grateful or scared, but what could he do? He was still entrapped in spiky vines.

The walls of fire stayed put, the flame broke out from them – and this time, it managed to reach Harry's robes, which were promptly set on fire.

Oddly, the Boy-Who-Lived didn't panic. He wondered if he should, but he was pretty sure that being set ablaze wasn't meant to make you feel good, or comfortable, or safe, yet for some reason he found out he was all three as his school robes lit up all the way to his shoulders.

Harry wasn't sure why, but he felt welcomed, just like back in his fourth year after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Little embers erupted in what he thought could be described as a gleeful manner, and he smiled. It was the strange and pleasant feeling of being back into a friend's embrace once again. The fire slowly enveloped him, and he felt very much at peace, not wanting to go, even if he had to stay trapped in brambles forever. He heard a cracking sound – yet he didn't panic, knowing that he was safe, despite everything telling him otherwise.

And now it was cold, oh so cold, and he felt so heavy he wondered if he'd ever walk again, and someone was tugging on his shoulder – and he opened his eyes to find himself back in Hogwarts, in the hospital wing, in the very cold room, away from the kind fire, with Dumbledore watching him in worry, Snape with a disgusted sneer on his face, and Hermione looking frantically from him to Ron to him to Ron to him to…

The raven-haired teenager immediately turned his head – cold, cold, cold was the air on his skin as he moved – and saw his best friend, still unconscious, still unfeeling, still lost in his own blazing mind. Harry, however, didn't know whether or not to blame his own imagination for it, but as he gazed upon his first and best friend's pale, freckled face, he couldn't help but think that Ron, instead of being rigid with pain, was looking peaceful.

"Harry?" Hermione pleaded in a small voice.

The teen shook his head, feeling as though his skull was weighing a ton and his neck would snap with the mere effort of keeping it upright. He felt horribly sluggish, and he probably would have chuckled at this, had he had the energy. Sluggish… Slughorn… Slugs… Come to think of it, Ron had rotten luck when it came to gastropods.

"Harry", Dumbledore said gently, placing a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. "Do you need to sit down?"

That would actually be fabulous, now that he thought about it. He wanted to sleep as well, it was unfair for Ron to be the only one snoozing. Maybe the gentle fire would find him and warm him up again, he was so cold…

"Ennervate", an irritated voice drawled, and Harry was – rudely – brought back to the land of the living, very aware of a dull ache in his temples, while his entire body felt like sweat-drenched cotton.

"Severus!" Dumbledore said forcefully, which made Hermione gape – never had she heard the old Headmaster snap at anyone.

"There is no time to dawdle, Potter will have to survive", Snape drawled while Harry groaned and gripped his forehead. "Granger, your turn."

Hermione startled and hurried to Ron's side. Just seeing him… so devoid of life, his chest barely lifting with his breath, so still and cold, so pale… Even the cute freckles that covered his cheeks and nose looked dull and faded. His long, coppery eyelashes, that gained a golden glint when light fell upon them, were not even fluttering. Beneath his eyelids were what she knew to be the most mesmerizing blue eyes she had ever seen, that never seemed to settle on one hue. They could be a tormented, stormy ocean blue, they could be the tender blue of a forget-me-not, or a chilling, pale crystal blue; they changed all the time, with the weather, with the lighting, with his mood...

She wanted nothing more than to hold his hands, his large, clumsy hands with long, almost feminine fingers, slightly calloused by Quidditch and chores around the Burrow, faint little freckles dotting their pale, diaphanous skin. She wanted to bend down and kiss him full on the lips, to discover their texture, their taste, and when she'd stand back up she wanted to see his baby blue eyes open, as if they were the stars of a modern rethinking of Sleeping Beauty. She wanted… she wanted…

"Anytime, Miss Granger!"

Snape's angry remark cut through her reverie like an overheated knife cuts through butter, and Hermione startled yet again. She sniffled loudly, forced herself to swallow down her tears, and unsteadily pointed her wand towards Ron – the boy she felt more than friendship for.

She wanted to press her lips to his forehead and smooth his shaggy red locks, maybe like a mother would do, but most importantly like a lover could do. She wanted to ask his permission before forcibly entering his thoughts and violating his privacy. She wanted to apologize for how she had treated him these past months.

But what she wanted and what she did were two different things, for she instead said "Legilimens" the way Harry had previously done and then she felt herself slip away and she was somewhere else…

The ex-Potions Master saw the Granger girl's body slump forward and lazily flicked his wand, stopping her fall. Her eyes were unblinking and slightly glazed over, just like Potter's had been a few minutes ago. Her breathing was slow. Normally, she would come back to her senses right about… now.

She gasped and blinked feverishly, and Severus released his magical hold on her… which caused her to fall on her backside to the floor, with an expression of dumb confusion on her face that made it look like she had drunk too much Firewhiskey. Albus shot Severus a look, and the teacher reluctantly grabbed the girl's sleeve and made her sit on one of the chairs around Weasley's comatose body.

Meanwhile, Potter was readjusting his glasses and gaping at his surroundings, obviously unable to figure out why he was feeling so feeble and out of place. Severus almost snorted with disdain. A true Potter, obviously, he needed to be told everything to even begin to understand what was happening to him. And Albus still insisted on coddling that stupid child…

"There was fire…"

His head sharply turned to the Granger girl, who was forcing herself to recover but could barely keep her head up. To think she could have made a fine potions maker had she bothered to experiment; but no, she just followed the instructions religiously without even questioning the brewing process. Have her prepare a deadly poison without telling her what she was making, then tell her to drink it, and she would do it. Idiot girl.

"… and vines… with thorns… brambles, dry brambles everywhere, and then everything was burning…"

Seemed Weasley had reserved them the same warm welcome he had gotten then. However, according to Granger's babbling, the boy's inner inferno hadn't swept her away in a torrent of furious screams and destructive, ridiculous teenage feelings.

Ridiculous. All of it, ridiculous. That was all there was to it. Weasley made mountains out of molehills. That was all there was. No reason to cause such commotion, none at all.

None at all.

Potter confirmed Granger's experience inside Weasley's mindscape to Albus. It was telling, actually, the way a mind shaped when its owner couldn't control it. Spikes and thorns, probably an unfortunate encounter with a briar bush, and there you formed the aspect of your very first mental barriers. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and all that rot.

Albus was back to looking pensively at Weasley while Potter and Granger were fidgeting. It was driving Severus mad. Couldn't children learn to sit still for one minute? Was it necessary to waste their already limited attention span by twiddling their thumbs?

"As I thought, Ronald recognized your presence, but he still pushed you away, you say?"

Potter confirmed with a shaky nod. Albus was back to gazing at the unconscious boy. Granger looked on the verge of tears again; oh for the love of Salazar, someone cast a Dry-Eye Hex on her or he'd do it himself!

However, before he could do it, Albus sighed and turned to the two children.

"I hoped he would wake after your visit, but it seems you'll have to return to your friend's mind. Both of you, this time."

Severus knew that more than one people could read the same mind at the same time; however, two people actively entering a mind at once? No, that was reckless. Dangerous.

"Albus…" he began, only to be dismissed.

"If Ronald was in a conscious state of mind, I wouldn't even think of it, Severus", his friend explained. "But the boy was rather clear with his feelings, was he not?"

Yes. Yes he was. The raging inferno that had all but blasted Severus away had been choke-full of contradicting emotions, longing and resentment and anger and happiness, a need to scream and to be heard once and for all.

Snape looked at the two dunderheads whose faces radiated with hope.

He thought about the glimpse of the violent emotions Ronald Weasley had all but assaulted him with.

He smirked inwardly. Granger and Potter were in for a surprise.